"But I thought it was all over—"
"We may have found the Menie and accounted for Quong but we still have Wasburg to deal with. So you stay—understand?"
It had the ring of an order but Quinn did not resent it. Instead he nodded assent. And Kane went out.
Quinn dressed slowly, enjoying the feel of clean clothing. And he was still knotting his tie when the man from Norreys came back. But, in place of the lank scarecrow who had left, there returned an alert person in well-tailored tweeds and a snap-brimmed hat.
"Ready—? We'll go on to Maartens'—"
They went not to a hotel but a tall old house. And they climbed two flights of narrow stairs to a big room with french doors wide open on a balcony. Wasburg sat up in bed, a mountain of pillows behind him. And Joris opened the door to them.
Within reach of Wasburg's hand rested the chest. He watched the Americans enter almost warily, Quinn thought. Why—that had been Oliver's way back home when he had a treasure under one paw and suspected that Dad was about to interfere in his cat concerns!
"What are you going to do with me?" The question was shot at Kane.
But Kane seated himself without haste, skimming his hat onto a nearby table.
"Do with you? You're not a prisoner, Wasburg."
"Am I not? You have brought me back across the border, not to my own rooms, but to this place where Mijnheer Maartens is to be obeyed. I do not think that I may walk out of here at my own choosing—"
"You are entirely wrong, Mijnheer," Joris answered that. "Whenever you wish you may walk out of here and no one will stop you."
"But not, I fancy, if I try to take this." He drew the chest closer.
"The ownership of that has yet to be proved. It belongs to the Sternlitz family. And who is the present Sternlitz heir?" Kane turned to Quinn.
"There is none that I know of. Unless it might be the Freule Matilda."
Wasburg leaned forward, out of the hollow of his pillows.
"Please, Mijnheer Anders, who is the Freule Matilda?"
"The Freule van t'Oostemberg. Her mother was a relative of the last Duke. She Uves near here in the Chateau des Dames."
"The Freule van t'Oostemberg," repeated Wasburg. "I might be allowed to speak with her? That is of the utmost importance, Mijnheer!"
"I think that it is of the utmost importance right now, Mijnheer Wasburg, to know who you are and why you believe that you have a claim to the Bishop's Menie,” Kane cut in.
Wasburg sank back into the pillows. In the bright sunlight his ivory skin was nearly the same shade as the linen behind him. His mouth was bracketed with hnes of pain and weariness. And the mask was back in place, the heavy eyelids effectively veiled again those alive and burning eyes.
"Which moves me to ask in my turn, Mijnheer, just who you are and why you have this uncommon interest in my affairs. Mijnheer Maartens has been most discreet and has held his tongue. But I will venture to say that you do not have official standing—"
That last might have been more question than statement in Quinn's judgment.
Joris seated himself on a straight-backed chair as if he were riding horseback.
"We have little time to waste." He might have been bringing an unruly classroom into order. "Kane represents one branch of an organization very much interested in the occupations of the service which employed the late Quong.
I am remotely connected with another of the same type. We were drawn into this affair—not exactly as treasure hunters—that part of it was Anders' by inheritance; his brother's death brought him overseas to finish the job Captain Anders had begun—no, we came in because we have the greatest desire to defeat all and any games which your late companions engage in. Do I make myself clear, Mijnheer?"
"You do." But Wasburg was staring down at his own hands. And for the first time Quinn saw the massive gold band on the middle finger of his right hand. The American was positive that that ring had not been there two days ago. Almost as if his own thoughts had been directed to it Wasburg began to turn it around and around his finger.
"You are frank," he said slowly, "and after yesterday I believe that you speak the truth. Surely you did all you could to remove from the world one who had too long befouled it. First—as to who I am—well, since my father is dead, I am now Frederick Floris Pieter Sternlitz of Sternsberg, a duchy which does not exist. I am the grandson of Ludwig Carlos, who was the last Duke, by his marriage with the Lady Mei, a Manchu of the old Imperial House.
"When the Russians overran Manchuria my father and I were in the hills of the Gobi country. We tried twice to escape to the coast but were cut off both times. Last year we decided to make another attempt through Tibet and the Assam passes. They wanted my father because of his blood—he had influence over certain tribes which for centuries have held allegiance to his mother's clan. Also the Russians had not overlooked his European heritage either. They seldom—"
"Overlook anything," Kane finished for him. "Yes, we are learning that, slow but sure—"
"We were caught before we reached Assam," Wasburg continued in his expressionless voice. "For three months we were under house arrest—with no hint of violence. Then one day that one came. He brought with him one of the knights to show to my father. I knew of the Menie— but to me it meant very little. The secret of its hiding place I had learned as a young boy—more because it was a tradition of my father's house than because it would lead me to this—" The hand bearing the ring moved across the lid of the chest.
"That one told us that two of these knights had been found. He wanted the other eleven. And not because of their value either—I do not altogether understand why—"
"That is what brought us in," answered Kane. And in a few swift sentences he sketched the plan for counterfeiting the Menie and reselling the false knights again and again.
"Ingenious," commented Wasburg. "Yes, now I can see why these would be worth more to that one than their mere value as a historic collection.
When my father would not immediately reveal to him the hiding place we were separated. It was—the next morning—" For the first time his voice caught. Quinn remembered the taunt Quong had flung at this man in the treasure chamber.
"It was the next morning," the Eurasian had his voice under control again, "that I was offered a chance for my father's Me. I was to come here, to locate the treasure, and with it I could buy my father's life. To me the treasure was far less than his safety—you can understand that, I think?"
"We do," Joris answered for them. "But why did you trust them?"
Wasburg laughed bitterly. "I did not. But what could I do? If I obeyed there was a faint chance that they might keep their end of the bargain. My father's influence among the tribes would be worth much to them. They might not kill him if I were their willing tool. So I was furnished with papers and sent on a roundabout route to Rotterdam. There I was told that another was after the treasure. I was given orders to find out what I could about him. So I was put on your trail in Dordrecht," he said to Quinn. "The rest you know—you have witnessed most of it."
"You have proof that you are Sternlitz?" Kane was regarding the smoke curling up from the tip of the cigarette he had just lighted as if he could read a fortune in it.
"I have papers I have brought with me. I have this— the Duke's signet—" He displayed the ring. "I have enough—they wanted no dispute about my ownership after I found it."
Kane's frown cleared. "Neither do we. What are you going to do now?"
The last Sternlitz shook his head. "That I do not know. I shall not return to the East. I am western educated by my father's wishes. And so I was a misfit in the tribal life. I do not know in what way I can earn my bread—"
"The collection is not complete—" Kane switched off on another track without any reason Quinn could see.
"No. Because of the old superstition that the Sternlitz land must be guarded by the Menie, two of the pieces were concealed in the foundation of the hunting lodge. Fortunately they were the
least valuable of the collection. They are the missing pieces—"
"One is in America," Quinn broke in. "My brother sent it there. That leaves only one unaccounted for."
"The one which was counterfeited," Kane agreed. "And that one might just be located also. There is the still unsolved mystery of Tubac—"
Joris nodded. "I find the matter of Tubac now of the highest importance—"
"Sure. Top priority! We'll get on it. I take it that the collection is now your only asset?" he asked Wasburg. It is.
"Van Norreys will be able to find a buyer for you if you want to sell. Maybe we can clear it for you to see him in person. We'll see."
"About Tubac," said Quinn. So the adventure wasn't over. He didn't know whether that idea was pleasing or not. When he thought of tramping on in Stark's boots a vast fatigue weighed him down.
"Tubac is another affair," answered Joris, almost, thought Quinn, as if he were patiently explaining something to a child.
And he could translate that, too. "Tubac is none of your affair," is what the Netherlander really meant. Well, he didn't blame them for that decision. They could have ended it all neatly in the treasure chamber if he hadn’t made a mess of it.
It was time to accept what he had really known all the time. Stark's heroics were not for him. He waited for the old sensation of frustration and shame to rise. But now he didn't feel anything at all except an overwhelming weariness.
"If it works out we may be able to recover the other piece," Kane was continuing, smoke curhng from his nostrils as if he were the Freule's dragon brooch come to life. "We may have to do a bit of traveling—"
Quinn was sure then that some unspoken message passed between the tall American and Joris. But he had no resentment.
"Now, Sternlitz," Kane got to his feet. "You're free to go if you wish. On the other hand you can help us with information and we may be able to help you. It's up to you—
For the first time the man in the bed smiled. And that smile broke the alien shadow of the East which had been across his face. Now he was one with them.
"I believe, Mijnheeren, that I am now in good hands. It is my intention to trust you. What I know is at your service. There is only one thing which I ask of you—a meeting with this lady of my house—this Freule van t'Oosternberg."
"We'll leave that to Anders to arrange. I believe she suggested a return engagement, didn't she, fella?"
Quinn roused himself to nod.
But three days passed before he was able to escort the sling-equipped Sternlitz into a taxi and drive for a second time to the Chateau des Dames. Again he followed a liveried footman through the long corridors to the dim room where sunlight fought hard to enter.
"May I present, my lady," the formal words came easily in that room, "Frederick Floris Pieter Sternlitz of Sternsberg-"
Sternlitz bowed with more grace and ease than any trans-Atlantic man could ever show.
"So—the last piece of the picture! Well, come here, young man—come here!" The imperious voice brought Sternlitz into the light by her table of scraps.
"A new piece, too. There is little of the Sternlitz in you—"
"I regret—" began the Eurasian.
"Nonsense! The Sternlitz blood was running thin. It needed a transfusion! You are entirely presentable, kinsman—" One of the ivory hands which had been toying with magnifying glass and penknife was suddenly thrust at him.
Sternlitz touched his lips to the knuckles.
"Well-mannered, too," she commented. "And you— jongeling—so the adventure is over?"
"It is, my lady."
She was measuring him with those dark eyes which saw not only him, but through him. He did not resent it. The heavy fatigue which had insulated him since he had returned to Maastricht still held.
"You were successful?"
"We were." Slowly, almost drably, he told the story of those two wild days which had brought the Bishop's Menie to light.
"Well done. And this Mijnheer Kane and Mijnheer Maartens—they are still with you?"
Quinn shook his head. "They left yesterday. They have gone on the affair of Tubac and after the last piece of the Menie."
'So? Well, when they return I shall hear that story also. Now what are you going to do, jongeling?"
“I shall finish my research and the book."
“Your part in the adventure being over? But it was a brave adventure was it not? You have a picture almost complete—do not take shame that other fingers will fit in the last piece—"
He wasn't, thought Quinn bleakly—now that he knew he was never intended for this game. He had learned his lesson—to stay on his own side of the fence.
During the next days, the next weeks, he made himself think of the past as one of the Freule's pictures—made up of bits and patches torn from other lives. He had fitted in a few, that was true—probably with no skill at all. There was the visit to the Wise Tomcat, the escape from the hotel in Dordrecht, the meeting with the Man Who Sold Memories, the visit to Odocar's Tower. But when he found himself trying to relive any of that he resolutely buried himself in his work. He hoped that it would recede more and more into a dim memory until it would mean no more to him—or not as much—as something he had read as happening to another.
It was five months before the last bit of that picture was put into its proper place—neatly and expertly by fingers as skilled in their business as those of the Freule. And Quinn almost chose not to see it done.
He was in New York then, on a visit to the publisher. And he stood in a hotel lobby, a telegram in his hands, two answers to it warring in his head.
"See you ten-thirty sixteenth important, van Norreys."
This was the sixteenth and his watch read ten-ten. Did' he want to go? Why should he? He wanted to forget the Bishop's Menie. So much better to—
But even as he put the message in his pocket and walked toward the door he knew that he was going to take the first cab he could find and drive straight to the House of t’Norreys.
Fifteen minutes later he was facing Lorens van Norreys On the mirror-polished desk in that ofiice was a large black leather case. Van Norreys released a catch and lifted its lid. There were velvet-lined compartments and each held a man of the Bishop's Menie. Quinn counted—half aloud.
"Thirteen!"
"Yes. The Menie is now complete."
"Then Kane and Maartens—"
"The story is their own. I shall not spoil it in retelling. Tonight, if you are free, have dinner with us and hear it. Sternlitz will be present also. We have now a buyer for the Menie and Sternlitz is in Washington on a mission. He knows a great deal about the interior of Asia which we wish to learn. How have matters fared with you?"
"The book is finished. It will be published in the fall."
"Excellent. Congratulations. And what do you intend to do with yourself now?"
Quinn shrugged. "I am applying for a teaching position. But my age is still against me."
"You made no effort to contact me when you returned to the States three months ago. I assumed that you were engrossed in your own work. Or was it because, as you say, you were 'fed up' with the whole affair?"
"Let us say that I realized my limitations." Quinn was rather pleased with the smoothness of that answer.
Van Norreys did not reply at once. Instead he brought out a folder, leafed rapidly through the papers inside, and produced a single sheet which he pushed across the desk to Quinn.
The writing on it began without salutation or introduction and he guessed that it was only part of a longer report.
"—could not have done so well without Anders. He appears to take to this sort of thing naturally. And he knows enough not to smash ahead on his own. Suggest that if he is willing we keep contact. A good man in a tight place—"
Quinn read the words twice. Then the black letters blurred and moved. He found that he dared not look up just then.
"That was Kane's report to me five months ago. I called you here today not only
because of this—" Van Norreys gestured to the Menie, "but to discover where you stand—"
"I thought—I thought—" Quinn gathered courage to blurt out the sorry truth, "I thought that I was a failure. I thought—"
But van Norreys might not have heard that outburst. "All kinds and types of men play this game. What one is able to do may not be possible for another. You know the risks we run. We have no governmental ties—we are blithely disowned if caught. We work always under cover. There are no medals, no recognition, no public triumphs —even, if by our efforts, a precarious peace is preserved for a short time.
"We are always at swords' points with the enemy. We fight on the first line of defense. That is all I can promise you. The decision is yours. Only remember this—I would not call for Roajact if I didn't know that he was of value to us. In this game we carry no dead weight!"
Quinn straightened. Something—a burden had been lifted from him. Outside the window the sun was very bright, a vivid gold. It was a wonderful day!
"If I remain Roajact—I go to work?" he asked, a little shy of this even yet.
"Well, there is a little matter—" Van Norreys brought out a second folder. "Just how much do you know about Central America?"
"Precious little," Quinn admitted. "But I could learn."
"Roajact had better," Lorens van Norreys returned. He closed the Menie case almost impatiently and shoved it away. That was done with.
Quinn moved his chair closer.
"There is a country—"
Quinn Anders relaxed and listened, content.
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